


Hard in Border Town('s Villa)

by aslipperysloth



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon Gay Character, Dirty Talk, Long-Distance Relationship, Longing, M/M, Minor Female Lavellan/Cullen Rutherford, Minor Trespasser Spoilers, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Game(s), Reunions, Romance, Size Difference, Villas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 12:38:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4787537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aslipperysloth/pseuds/aslipperysloth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian is thrilled to have the worst villa in Thedas, and absolutely does not miss Iron Bull when he's not there. </p><p>Except, not really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hard in Border Town('s Villa)

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, it's just sex in the villa basically. :3 Unbeta-ed.

Dorian’s eyes dart up from his book for what must be the hundredth time, to scan the horizon. 

Nothing yet. Leaning back on his lounging chair with a sigh, he forces his eyes back down to his book, though nothing he’s reading is registering in his mind. As evening begins to fall, the chair – a simple thing of wood and hard woven grasses, as delightfully banal as the countryside family who made it – becomes terribly uncomfortable. Still, he refuses to move from his spot. 

He doesn’t know what tips him off, whatever shifts in the fade result from the connection between two people, but when he squints anxiously again he can finally spot a small dot on the top of the hill in the distance. Soon, the one dot becomes two, then the shape is fully familiar as it continues to travel down the dirt path. It’s like something out of a novel, the silhouette dark against the background of golden red sky that seems to light the vineyards and blossoming orange trees of the landscape on fire. 

Dorian tries to calm his beating heart and flatten his upturned lips, but the days of anticipation have been torturous and he’s only human, after all. Shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun, he raises his other hand briefly in greeting. If the figure notices him, it doesn’t respond. Perhaps still too far away. 

For what feels like many hours but is probably only just one, Dorian can only sit and inhale the smell of distant rainfall wafting on the breeze and try to estimate the steps. The darkness begins to fully fall and the distant Arlathan forest starts to disappear into the sky. 

And then the distant shape is here. _He’s_ here. 

Varric once wrote that, “When the Inquisitor returned from defeating Corypheus, her Commander ran towards her with tears flowing from his eyes like dewdrops to the wind, sweeping her off her feet and holding her reverently above him as if she was the second coming of Andraste.” (Not true, by the way, it was a simple embrace.) How Dorian had scoffed at the embellishment at the time, but now he has to stop himself from running into this man’s arms in the same fashion. With less sweeping on Dorian’s part, naturally. 

Attempting to ignore his entire body crying out so that he can maintain a bit of dignity, Dorian stands and plants his sandaled feet firmly into the ground. But in an instant, with barely enough time to look up at the man who towers tall above his shoulders, he is pulled into a pair of hard, bulging arms. 

Boisterous laughter rings in his ear. He is crushed in a hug, sandals falling from where they dangle on the end of his toes as the air is practically squeezed out of him. The chest he’s pulled against is hot as an oven and sticky from the humid air, and Dorian’s face slides against it. Somehow, despite all his etiquette training and years of ‘Tevinter’ hygiene, he truly doesn’t mind it. The perfumes of Tevinter are all flowers and delicate notes, but this scent is natural and grounded, as if the Maker himself had sculpted the man straight from the earth. Just the simple smell of sweat of exhaustion lifts Dorian’s spirits. How his time in the Inquisition had changed him. For the better, he hopes.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” The Iron Bull says, warmly, “ _kadan_.”

“All right, all right,” Dorian forces out through stifled lungs with a fond chuckle of his own. Then he pulls his arms away to push them firmly against the other man’s chest. “Put me down, you brute.” Bull complies, but makes a huffing sound, like a tiny dragonling, as he burrows into Dorian’s freshly-trimmed moustache with his nose. Bull loves making a mess of him, so much so that Dorian won’t even bother to fix his facial hair. Not while they’re alone, anyway. Consequently, his beeswax costs are always quite reduced once he crosses the border. 

Once Dorian touches ground again, his bare feet against cool stone, he reluctantly pulls his palms away from Bull’s chest, picks up his book and beckons his companion through the door. Well, curtain, actually, would be more accurate. Dorian hasn’t yet procured a proper door. Still, best to get out of the night. There could be eyes everywhere, especially now that Dorian’s making bigger political strides. He’s still not as good as Bull at covering his tracks. 

“Bull you’re limping,” Dorian notices, frowning.

“Hmm,” Bull replies, acknowledging. “Hey, what’cha reading?” 

“Ah,” Dorian looks back down to the hard cover of his book, before tossing it aside to the simple wooden table where it can serve its previous purpose. It holds down the plain white sheet that he’s repurposed to make some semblance of a dining table. “Ancient Tevene nonsense. ‘Treatise on how the emotional stresses of slugs can affect wood quality of staves’ or something of the sort. Inconsequential.” 

“Ah.”

“Yes, I know, so positively interesting it makes you want to explode.” 

“Uh huh. Tell me more.” 

He almost lets go of what he was nagging Bull about, before it dawns on him. He knows Bull’s tricks too well by this point. “No,” Dorian says sternly. “No, you’re trying to distract me. Stop it.” Without responding, Bull simply makes his way further inside and looks around the small space with the analysing eye of a former Ben-Hassrath. Pinpointing vulnerabilities, scanning for exits, then frowning at the embroidered curtain in the entryway. Not the safest place, Dorian agrees, but the best he could do under the circumstances. “Why in Thedas did you decide to walk all this way? It must have taken hours. What about your ankles? You need to be careful.” 

The man rolls his one eye dramatically upward. “Yes, Tama.” 

“ _Bull._ ”

“Krem wanted to do some damsel-rescuing outside of the city, and I told him it wouldn’t be quite as dashing if he ran in in a pair of shoddy boots instead of on a mighty steed, all right? So we let him use the horse for now.”

“I’m sorry, _the_ horse? Singular?” 

“Yeah, just the one. Though Rocky eats like one, if that counts.” Bull scratches absently at the stubble on his face. “We, uh, traded the others to pay for a ship that would get us as far as Seleny-”

“Amatus,” Dorian starts, not able to hold back a sigh of frustration at this repeated problem, but his protest goes ignored again - as usual when it comes to this particular topic. “If you need funds, I can always-”

“-but we’re saving up for a couple new ones. Everyone voted to keep the Orlesian one, ‘Messere Merde’, but he’s getting lonely without other horses around. Anyway, it’s more secretive this way, walking,” Bull grins at him, a lewd glint forming in his eye. Of course Dorian knows full well that Bull gets excited by the danger of their clandestine meetings. Seemingly the closer they are to the Tevinter border the more libidinous Bull becomes. Crazy Qunari. 

“They miss you, you know,” Bull adds. 

After a sombre moment, Dorian says softly, “Say hello for me.” He misses the Chargers too, truly. Before he’d properly said goodbye, Dorian had even managed to build a sort of peaceful rapport with Krem, and for years Krem had hated him simply for being an Altus. “Whatever makes the chief happy,” Dorian had finally earned; whether that was a grudging acceptance or an actual cordial acquaintanceship he’s still not certain. “I must admit Qarinus was much more exciting with your lot in it, however briefly. Court still hasn’t stopped talking about the ruffians who ransacked the Jovial Ogre, you know. One day they’re going to send people to steal back those kegs of rare ale.”

“Eh,” Bull tenses although he waves his hand in a nonchalant manner, reminding Dorian of endless talks in his favourite chair in Skyhold. “They hit Dalish, they deserved it. Damn ‘Vints think everyone is a slave,” Bull says dangerously. “I still think we let ‘em off easy.” 

“Certainly so.” Dorian raises hands in truce. “Don’t get me wrong, I most definitely approved. The whole comeuppance was a delightful scandal. They were so caught off guard that they still haven’t stopped spreading outlandish rumours about what really happened.” Or about Dorian’s possible involvement for that matter, but that’s a story for another time. He doesn’t want to bring more worry into their lives. Not now. So he keeps his mouth locked tight.

Bull throws his pack down to the floor, blanket and travel materials slipping from their fastenings, greataxe soon following with a clang against the unpolished stone floor. The weapon has acquired a few more dents than last year, and Dorian wants so desperately to buy him a new one, but he knows Bull wouldn’t approve. Honestly, a magister’s consort running around with such poor equipment. What would his mother say?

“So this is the place, huh?” Bull breathes as he glances around again, this time more leisurely. Dorian feels a sudden sense of shame over how sparsely furnished the ‘place’ is. The main room is barely the size of their quarters in Skyhold, occupied by nothing but the table and two rustic wooden chairs. Dorian fetches and lights an oil-fuelled ceramic lamp from the tiny cooking area nearby, but it only serves to highlight the dull emptiness of the bare beige walls. 

All right, at the moment it’s more building than residence, he’ll admit it. It’s a work in progress. 

In the soft light, Bull looks like a looming giant in the room. Still traipsing around Thedas without a shirt, obviously, but at least there’s more coverage from the leather shoulder harness than usual. But as Bull’s defined back muscles move to help him bend and unbuckle the metal braces from his ankles (both ankles now, unfortunately), Dorian can also spot more than a few new scars. Some are very freshly raised and angry white against grey skin. It makes Dorian frown with worry. 

Damn it all, he’s going to get permanent lines in his face at this rate. He’s too young for lines.

In contrast, Bull looks very much emotionally unburdened as he finally throws his waist belt down, turns back to Dorian and stretches. At least, Dorian realizes with approval, Bull’s baggy pants are in one piece this time. 

When Dorian’s eyes return upward, Bull is smirking at him, clearly pleased to have captured his attention. Dorian quickly rectifies his own face into neutrality once again, though he can’t stop it from heating up. 

“I-yes,” he collects himself in haste. “What were you saying? Right, it’s a ‘villa’, or what counts as one in these parts. Welcome,” he gestures around himself and at the scant furnishings. “Iolanna and Elanil helped me with the bed before they left. But I gathered anything I could get from town that cost less than ten andris and was small enough to be dragged the rest of the way here from the carriage on the main road. Hence the slight, er, cosmetic damage.” It hadn’t been easy, to put it mildly. “Figured it best to forego my Tevinter extravagance for something more…non-descript.” 

“Must have been tough for you,” Bull mocks, while simultaneously nodding in approval. 

“Immensely.” Just being honest. “You approve? I know it’s not exactly the most comfortable of places, but I’m sure we can manage to-” _make it more like home_ , he just barely stops himself from saying, “tolerate it.”

“No!” Bull assures. “I mean, shit yeah I approve.” The man plops into one of the chairs, which creaks in warning beneath his large body. Bull doesn’t seem to notice, downing the last of the water from his waterskin. “Warm bed, a roof, nice and remote. Practically a vacation.”

“Every day without a contract is a vacation for you, Bull. Try being forced to sit for hours on the stone senate seats while annoying nobles blather on repetitively.” 

“Oh you poor thing,” Bull coos. “Your pretty ass must be so sore.” The tap on Dorian’s behind is more of a squeeze. Crude, but it makes Dorian chuckle nevertheless. “Let The Iron Bull rub it better.” 

Dorian rolls his eyes. “Not until you visit the bath chamber. Then we’ll see.” 

“But you like things dirty.” Dorian shoos him from his chair and down the hall. 

Dorian has already re-filled the bath for Bull after using it himself, though since then the water has cooled significantly. The villa land is tapped into the very edges of Tevinter’s irrigation network, but their drinking and bathing water is mostly drawn from an underground stream from the mountains with no means of heating. Not without magic, anyway. The facilities are so rudimentary compared to his family estate in Qarinus. There’s not even a hot room. Still, he has memories of having to bathe in Skyhold after many young and muddy recruits turned the hot spring from a clear mountain pond to a brownish sludge, so in comparison it’s not like he’s particularly unhappy with these arrangements. 

The lack of heat doesn’t seem to bother Bull either, since he tosses his pants aside quickly and sinks into the square of shallow water in the floor with a sigh. He doesn’t ask Dorian to heat it up. Antiva is still quite hot in midsummer, though compared to Seheron he’s sure it’s considered quite temperate, and the nights are at least a cooler respite. After lighting the candles in the corners to ward off the darkness, light reflecting in patterns from the disturbed water that barely comes up to Bull’s waist, he kneels behind his companion and sidles close to Bull’s back. Close enough to breathe on his neck. Bull tilts his head back slightly with a groan. 

“Got a strigil?” Bull asks. 

“Something even better.” Dorian reaches for the small ball kept nearby. There’s no need to announce the surprise, because when he presses it into Bull’s hands the Qunari is already so excited that he practically roars, eye widening. 

“ _Yes!_ Soap! Fuck, it’s been too long.” Happily grabbing it from Dorian’s hands, he lathers his armpits immediately then sinks down, slouching as much as he can in order to stretch his arms out over the edge.

“I can tell that it has,” Dorian teases. “My nose can, anyway.” After a relaxing moment, Bull continues to wash himself. Dorian takes the opportunity to collect some of the oil he keeps nearby to rub into Bull’s cleansed shoulders, feeling the hard tension and release beneath his fingertips as he works. Bull sighs gratefully. An act such as this would be considered beneath Dorian in Tevinter - slave work, really - and though he’s fully committed to his anti-slavery efforts, it still gives him a perverse sort of thrill to debase himself so. Dorian nips at the upper parts of Bull’s neck that his fingers haven’t yet reached, and Bull turns his head to face him, tilting his head to the side to avoid hitting Dorian with his horns. But Dorian pulls away before he can be caught in a chaste kiss. 

With that attempt failing, Bull then tries to guide one of Dorian’s hands from his shoulder down beneath the water and between his legs, which Dorian pulls away from as well. Waiting only leads to a greater anticipation, after all. Bull lets out a comical huff of disappointment.

Then there’s only the sound of the water settling again. 

It’s a kind of courtship dance between them sometimes, a push and pull, like two puffed up halla poking at each other playfully during the right season. Of course, it’s always a matter of time before Dorian gives in, practically presenting himself for mounting by the ‘savage barbarian Qunari invader’. 

And with that thought he’s already aroused. 

‘Don’t think about it,’ he tells himself. ‘Waiting. Waiting is good. It’s already been many months, you can handle a few more minutes.’ 

Instead, he decides to leave Bull to his own devices for now, choosing in the meantime to busy himself with food back in what must pass as both the atrium and culina. Today had been his first experience trying to get by at the market with what little Antivan he remembers learning in the circle ( _circles_ , plural, which come to think of it probably explains his lack of skill in this regard). Surely the locals must have found it amusing, the obvious ‘Vint not-so-disguised under a bulky cloak, trying to barter for five oranges from the most expensive box. But oh, was it ever worth it. The scent of fresh fruit was one of the things he’d missed most during his time with the Inquisition. _This_ he decides he doesn’t have to wait for, so he peels one, licking the stray juices from his hands. He’s got some dried meats as well, procured days before he’d arrived by his trusted housekeepers - _generously paid_ , mind you, although still slaves in legal status. Dorian is trying his best to change that, but some days he feels as if it’s only a matter of time before his luck in the Imperium runs out. He’s certain Bull feels the same. 

But now’s not the time for thinking of the future. Celebration and reunion, that’s what he should focus on. 

Bull is back with him quickly, still dripping and not bothering to cover his nakedness and a now half-hard erection that Dorian tries hard not to gape at again, mouth watering more for that now than for the food in front of them. But he restrains himself, clearing his throat and sitting down opposite Bull, setting a plate out for him. It’s full of meat and mountain root vegetables and fruit that includes, with a bit of reluctance on his part, one of his lovely oranges. Bull, however, doesn’t bother to sit down, stuffing everything into his mouth as fast as he can. He’s starving. Dorian hasn’t seen him eat like that since they’d finally caught a wyvern after days of food rationing in the Hissing Wastes. 

“Didn’t you make enough on your last contract?” Dorian asks. “It’s like you haven’t eaten in ages.”

Bull shakes his horned head. “Last job was a favour for the Inquisitor. No charge.”

“Well she’s not the Inquisitor anymore, technically. Not that I don’t love Ellana, she’s my dearest friend, but-” 

“She’ll always be the Boss to me,” Bull replies with finality, mouth still half full. Good old Iron Bull, always needing everyone to have a title and a place, even though he has had ample time outside of the Qunari regime. Dorian watches Bull’s throat as he swallows. “Seven shield arms are better than none.” 

“She can best every single one of you, even one-handed,” Dorian points out.

“Hah!” Bull guffaws. “Ouch.”

Fine, he decides with a sigh, he’ll leave the topic of payment alone. Perhaps when Bull’s in a more receptive mood. 

“Come now,” Bull steps over to him to run his thumb over the frown in Dorian’s face. “The Chargers are getting by just fine, horns way up. Don’t fret.” 

“I just don’t like not being there.” He thinks about how better to express his thoughts, looking up at Bull’s large form. “I don’t want you to get into trouble.” 

“I know. But that’s our speciality.” Bull picks up a strawberry and pushes it between Dorian’s lips. It is a bit hypocritical of Dorian to criticise Bull’s eating habits, since he supposes he hasn’t eaten much himself lately, the stress of politics and war getting to him enough that he’s lost much of the musculature he had gained when he’d been fighting for his life and the lives of his friends against a god-like darkspawn. Now he just trains by himself in his garden and shows off at parties. It’s not quite the same. 

As if reading his thoughts, Bull’s hands sweep down his body, and he bends over Dorian to push his breeches down just enough to caress the top of the long scar that now mars Dorian’s leg. Yes, it’s a reminder of a valiant Bull coming to his rescue and saving him from assassination. But is it unsightly? Also yes, very much so. Dorian shrugs away, choosing instead to fiddle with the lamp on the table, hooking fingers into the ceramic loop and refusing to meet Bull’s eyes. “Healing okay?” Bull asks, tenderness in his voice obvious.

“It’s been a year, I should hope so.” Bull doesn’t buy it, face still serious. “Yes, it’s fine. Thank you.” Dorian pauses, kohl-lined eyes glancing up with renewed heat. “No problems at all wrapping my legs around your hips at night.”

“Good.” Dorian yelps as he’s suddenly lifted into the air and into Bull’s arms as if he weighs as little as a strip of parchment. His legs stretch around Bull’s middle as they press together, chest to chest. Luckily, he manages to keep hold of the lamp. “Bed?”

Dorian hastily points the light to the only remaining room in the residence, his own pulse already speeding up. Magic is nice, but raw physical power – that’s exotic. Intoxicating. He should have known it would be a thing. Once he’d been a young boy left awestruck after his father took him to watch loincloth-clad fighters struggle to the death in the Amphitheatre of Minrathous. Logically it follows that later in life a simple pair of large, flexing arms would leave him weak in the knees. 

Dorian has dressed simply, forgoing his usual belts and buckles and ornamentation. Clothes are always hastily torn off him, and tonight is no different. When Bull gets frustrated when the simple linen tunic gets stuck between Dorian’s head and the arm that’s holding the lamp, he simply tears it in two, as easily as moving his hand through air. Bull leaves it strewn on the stone floor, putting his lips to Dorian’s brown skin, and Dorian moans as the wet tongue tickles its way over his collarbone, sending heat straight downward. 

They continue to make their way to the bedroom.

“What happened to your mage skirts?” Bull asks, sliding his hand into his Dorian’s breeches, clearly disappointed in the existence of laces. 

“Please don’t remind me. They were only in season again for two months. A few magisters took a trip to one of the Ferelden circles and decided they couldn’t be seen committing the same crime against fashion.” 

“Aww, too bad. I liked them. They were convenient.” 

As they cross the threshold, Dorian has just enough time to drop the lantern to the side table, before he’s hoisted onto the bed, making it wobble precariously as he lands. The bedding is thin, thinner than in Skyhold even. 

“Argh, it’s been too long,” Bull groans. Dorian knows that must be true, knows that Bull has taken no other to his bed over the past few years, not since Dorian, despite him no doubt continuing to boast in taverns far and wide about hundreds of imaginary encounters. Sometimes he wonders if they shouldn’t have a talk about their exclusive arrangement, but perhaps speaking of it would make it too real, removing the edge of mystery that makes life exciting. “Once a year is not enough.”

“I agree,” Dorian gasps, Bull’s mouth already at his chest, laving and biting at pointed dark nipples, which feels better than it probably should. “More often now that I’ve acquired this residence, don’t you think?” 

“It had better be,” the man replies, lust adding a husky edge to his voice. Maker, he isn’t kidding, it has truly been nearly a year since they’d last seen each other. An entire year with only his hand and the memory of being in Bull’s mouth, having Bull inside him, being inside Bull. A year of fisting sheets as if they were sturdy horns, sticking his own fingers into his mouth in a desperate, wanton display atop his empty bed. One day the anticipation might just kill him. While it’s true Bull had given him a ‘saartoh nehrappan’, the last time they’d used it Dorian’s face had remained red enough that even Maevaris had poked fun at him for it. Using it without his lover beside him also made his heart ache for the real thing. So for now it is kept safely stored in a locked chest at the bottom of a wardrobe. “Always more Antivan jobs for us. Cleaning up after the Crows decide to crap all over things.” 

Bull continues to work his way down, pushing his tongue into Dorian’s belly button and holding his hips in a gentle embrace. “No ropes tonight?” Dorian asks, curiously. 

“There’ll be time for that later, don’t worry. Even learned some new knots at sea, I think you’ll like it.” Naturally. It would be very unlike Bull not to have something incredibly naughty planned for him. Absolutely will he return to his homeland with a persistent ache in his lower back, a stinging stretch in his inner thighs, and soreness in unmentionable areas for many, many days. “But not tonight. Tonight is just you, and me.” 

Not a watchword day then, just much-needed relief. “Oh,” Dorian gasps again, this time in surprise as Bull’s large hands suddenly haul him further up so that his head rests on the flat pillow. And finally, _finally_ he meets his lips in an Orlesian kiss that Dorian accepts with open invitation. As the top of his head is embraced in one of Bull’s hands, large fingers moving through his hair, Bull’s tongue delves into his mouth as if he can taste the nectar of the ancient gods themselves. Dorian meets him half way, tasting the strange combination of the soda ash and salt he’s used to clean his teeth along with the oranges from a moment ago and another pleasant flavour unique to Bull. Bull kisses like he’s trying to inhale him, pulling Dorian’s body closer until his back is arched and he’s forced to hook a leg over the back of one of Bull’s muscular thighs. 

Taking the rare chance to move things along at his own pace, Dorian moans encouragement into Bull’s mouth and pushes into the larger body, already clinging to Bull’s sturdy back. It has been too long indeed. He’s like a parched man finding water. He’s painfully willing and ready already, and it hasn’t even taken more than a minute. 

When they part, Bull lets his hot breath mingle with Dorian’s. With a half smile Dorian dares to trace Bull’s lips for himself, to suck at the dent of the scar on Bull’s upper lip. Not a moment later, though, Bull is moving down his body again, hands holding Dorian down heavy and firm. Being at Bull’s mercy is a truly wonderful feeling. 

The closer Bull gets to his core, where Dorian lies hard and aching and already wet against his own stomach, the slower Bull decides to go. In the end, Bull stops moving entirely, looking up at him as he kisses Dorian’s inner thigh so lightly that it tickles. 

“Don’t tell me you’re going to make me beg,” Dorian whines, frustrated.

“That’s up to you,” Bull grins, speaking against damp skin. 

Instead, Dorian grips Bull’s horns and pulls him up to where he most wants his paramour to be. Surprisingly Bull lets him, responding with a hearty self-satisfied chuckle. While it’s true Dorian doesn’t often take charge, it’s not like Bull is entirely opposed to it, not based on his interactions with some women like the dangerously astute Madame de Fer or even Cassandra on occasion. Maybe it’s a ‘Tama’ thing to match Dorian’s ‘Father’ thing. Both of them are oddly maladjusted when he thinks hard about it. 

Then he can’t think anymore at all as Bull’s tongue finally curls around the head of his cock, into the slit, pushing against the pulled back skin to slide along the underside. The shock of it moves through his body like chain lightning, nothing but a trail of dangerous pleasure left in the wake of every stroke as Bull laps at him. When Bull finally encloses Dorian’s cock fully in his mouth and slides down with hot, slick pressure, he nearly comes apart. Taking Dorian more deeply than Dorian can do in return (which is to say, not much at all because of Bull’s impressive size, but Bull’s never complained), Bull pushes forward enough that Dorian can feel himself hitting the back of Bull’s throat. Then he takes him even further, down to the base, lips meeting coarse hair. 

Dorian’s head flies back and his back arches, an arm going over his head to grip the pillow in his fist. At the same time, he tries to keep his eyes open, for he needs to commit this to memory for possibly many weeks to come. And what a memory it will be, Bull bobbing up and down on his cock as if there’s nothing else in the world he’d rather do, as if there’s absolutely nothing shameful about it. As if he enjoys pleasuring Dorian no matter what anyone else might think. This wouldn’t be the case in Tevinter, and certainly wasn’t throughout his youth. Guilt prevented him from enjoying anything quite this much. 

So he lets himself get swept away in the glorious feel of it, the tight slide making him want to thrust away to completion. Already he can sense his impending release, but Bull, as always, prefers to draw out his torment, pulling off and holding him just below the head with a firm and precise grip to taper it off. Dorian whimpers a loud objection, which Bull soothes with gentle strokes. 

“Mmm,” Bull makes a smug show of licking his lips, at which Dorian rolls his eyes, still panting. Ignoring Dorian’s knife-edge tension and breathlessness, Bull then moves his sinful mouth to the scar nearby. That’s much less pleasing, and he wishes Bull would just let him pretend it isn’t there. It’s not like the minor marks and scrapes he’d acquired with the Inquisition. No, this scar is dreadfully huge, as it was too big and too deep to heal properly with magic. Not that Dorian was much of a healer, especially not while injured. There was nothing he could do.

He hates it. 

Surely Bull can feel his sudden unease, but soon even that’s mostly forgotten as Bull worships it as reverently as he does all other parts of Dorian’s body, attempting to pacify his worries with a slick tongue. At the time Bull had made a joke about how they now had matching disfigurements, though Dorian has never found Bull’s missing eye ugly. 

Dorian sighs as Bull raises himself up onto his arms and nudges Dorian’s lips again with his flat nose and then his tongue, making the hair of Dorian’s moustache tickle his upper lip. Even the bitter taste of himself on Bull’s tongue is not off-putting, and he grasps at Bull’s arms. 

“Eager. I like it,” Bull smiles. 

“Always,” Dorian replies, and he wonders what he must look like, flushed and spread out, dark brown against the now crumpled white sheets, legs open and welcoming. Surely he wouldn’t be out of place as a theatrical whore begging under a rich client in Minrathous. 

Dorian wants to return the favour, it’s been so long since he’s felt the bitter warmth of Bull’s come on his lips, the thought of which has warmed many an evening. Bull just looks down at him, thoughtfully, as if considering what to do next. Before Dorian even understands what’s happening, Bull then pulls both of Dorian’s wrists into his right hand above his head. Fully in control again, Dorian is left helpless. The only thing Dorian can do is lift his neck, look down at Bull’s cock jutting out strongly, grey and huge and imposing. Dorian knows that if he wrapped his fingers around it it would be as hard as rock under the smooth cover of sensitive skin. 

“Please,” Dorian finally begs, softly but hoarse. “Please, Bull, let me-” But Bull shushes him with a finger, sitting back on his knees between Dorian’s spread legs. Bull wraps his own hand around himself to display the generous endowment to Dorian, stroking and teasing, a solid grip around the head just like Dorian knows the Qunari absolutely adores. Fingers twitch in Bull’s grip, Dorian’s mouth already forming another protest. He wants so desperately to reach for him. For a moment Dorian wonders if Bull will just spend on his stomach, just to torture Dorian a little longer with a release that’s ever out of reach. 

However, Bull squeezes upward until the leaking wetness pools at the centre of the skin that slides back and forth over the head. He collects the generous moisture on a fingertip, letting it glisten in the soft glow of the oil lamp, before meeting Dorian’s eyes with a smouldering gaze. ‘What would you like me to do?’ he knows is the unspoken question. Thankfully, Bull doesn’t let him degrade himself for too long – Dorian is already opening his mouth wide and sticking his tongue out, pleading – and moves it to Dorian’s lips. When the finger reaches his mouth, Bull lets go of his wrists so he can hold Bull’s hand between his own and fellate Bull’s finger. Eyes closed and moaning deeply around it in near unimaginable desperation, Dorian savours the taste of it, moving his tongue in agile circles around Bull’s fingertip and teasing the underside spot that Bull would love so much if he would just allow Dorian to _put his Maker-damned mouth elsewhere_. 

Bull growls in approval. “What a fucking sight.” 

“For sore eyes, yes, as we’ve established. I’m so very handsome – mmm – and wonderful,” he tries to murmur, mouth still half-full of Bull’s not inconsiderably sized finger. “ _Please_ let me-”

-and he’s cut off, losing his voice entirely as Bull removes the finger, only to plunge it, drenched in Dorian’s saliva, straight between Dorian’s legs and, without delay, inside him to the hilt. 

Ohhh, Maker. It’s going to be _that_ kind of evening. 

Dorian had cleaned himself earlier, thankfully, but he hadn’t been prepared at all for things to progress so quickly. But _yes_ , oh yes, this hastiness is so much better than spending hours coaxing him open. Dorian enjoys the sting and pressure of being forced to take him in, but that doesn’t mean it’s not very, very large. He tries not to clench around it. 

Bull is unrelenting, already sliding the large finger right over the spot that makes him writhe on the end of Bull’s hand like he’s a musical instrument to be played at will, shivering and crying out into the serene country evening. The strokes feel so strange inside his body, but still so very good. 

“My good boy,” Bull murmurs fondly, breath hot against his ear, clearly happy to halt the flow of beseeching words in favour of a keening whine. Oh no, _not this_ , he’s going to lose control of himself much too soon. Bull is smart enough, understands enough about his relationship with his father to know exactly what he’s doing with his words. Bloody Ben-Hassrath. Now that his Pater is dead he feels even more mortified over the way a phrase he’d never heard in his life from Halward could drive him so crazy in the bedroom when said by his wicked lover. His mother would faint. “My pretty ‘Vint.”

Bull leans down so he can encourage Dorian to let go of one fist he’s clenched against his chest, nuzzling his face into Dorian’s palm. Dorian cups Bull’s cheek, feeling the scars, the prickly cheeks, the unusual ridges where his horns start to emerge from his forehead, the sensitive pointed ears. 

Gently, Bull then grabs the hand with his own and kisses the centre of it. Dorian pauses momentarily, stunned. It’s such a saccharine action, almost as if it’s out of a storybook. As his half-lidded eyes meet Bull’s, he can’t help but be filled with the deepest trust. 

“That’s it,” Bull whispers. “Doin’ so good. Want more?” 

“Yes.”

Bull then looks questioningly at the container of oil on the side table and back to Dorian for confirmation. Ah. Dorian has been using it for the lamps, but it’s made from pressed olives so surely it can suffice. Not that it’s particularly ideal, but he doesn’t want to break the mood by running off for a potion, it’ll entirely ruin the moment. To be honest, Corypheus himself could reappear at the window and Dorian wouldn’t be able to pull himself away. So he just nods. 

Not a moment later a second finger is pushing into him alongside the first, the burn of the stretch making Dorian yelp before he can stop himself, which Bull responds to by holding him down with a firm, comforting hand. Dorian endures it for more than a few minutes, but to be honest, he’d rather just get to what he really wants and get it over with if it’s already this difficult. 

“I know you like to take your time, Bull,” he murmurs, hoping to push it forward, “but will you please just fuck me already.” 

“Since you ask so nicely,” Bull says, and it speaks volumes to how far gone Bull is too, despite the illusion of control. Usually he’s so meticulous about Dorian’s preparation, and would never, ever proceed with so little. But now he just removes his fingers (Maker, Dorian doesn’t know which is worse now, the pain or the emptiness), and oils himself up, showing off to Dorian with a confident expression. Dorian watches for a moment, now more apprehensive than excited about it, and closes his eyes, hoping some mental control will help with what’s coming. Then Bull’s arm is next to his head as he moves on top of him, guiding himself with his other hand. 

_Merciful Andraste’s holy knickers_ , two large fingers are nothing compared to Iron Bull’s massive length trying to force its way into his smaller body. ‘Relax relax relax,’ he chants to himself, but still ends up biting his lip and clenching the sheets in his hands. Bull slides in slowly and unbearably gently. 

“Kadan, you know the watchword-” Bull starts, clearly concerned about Dorian wincing his way through things, though he’s breathing hard himself, chest heaving in front of Dorian’s eyes. 

“No, I’m fine. I’m…” he stops trying to speak and just lets himself take a shaking breath. All he can do is just lie quivering around the invasion, his neck straining backward. He’d forgotten how hard this is. Bull is so big. He’s _so big_. He’s the huge, hulking beast that Tevinter parents warn their children about and Dorian’s lying under him, willingly putting himself completely at his mercy. No control left, it feels like he’s drowning. 

“That’s it, breathe. You’re so good,” Bull rasps. 

Just you and me, Bull had said. None of their usual games this time, so he only has this moment to focus on. Grabbing Bull’s horns again for a moment he tilts his head up and pulls Bull down to kiss him to distraction. Bull barely moves for a long time. Just the tiniest of nudges, pushing slightly forward until the largest part of him finally slides through. 

Dorian jerks, Bull’s large hand holding him, steady and calming, like a gentle master to a skittish horse. Dorian sighs with pleasure and pain, eyes clenched tight. To be practically split apart so wide by the Iron Bull – there’s absolutely nothing that can compare to this feeling. His shaking hands dig into Bull’s back as he tries to move his legs higher around Bull’s midsection. The strain of being wrapped around a body so large is already making his inner thighs tingle too. Every part of him ends up stretched and used after ‘riding the Bull’. Dorian loves every blessed minute of it.

“Seems you’ve missed me,” Bull says, tone just the slightest bit reprimanding. “Someone hasn’t been practicing with my present.”

“It’s not…the same.” Not the same as this, it isn’t. No heat, no pressure of being trapped under a heavy body, no joy of hot breath growling harsh, lewd Qunari phrases into his ear. No scent in the air of their bodies joining, the smell that lingers on the sheets for days afterward. No freedom to be as loud as he wants because nobody can hear him. He can’t get any of that from a cold, leather-wrapped rod. 

After what seems like ages, Bull is finally settled fully inside him as far as is physically possible. By no means is it all of him, Dorian will never feel Bull’s balls slapping against him as he takes him to the hilt, but they both work with what they have. Bull doesn’t seem to mind; his body is tensed as if he’s preparing for battle, and when he clutches at Dorian’s short hair, his neck, his hips with his oil-slicked hand he lets out a pleasured grunt of his own. Gripping Dorian so tight that Dorian will be able to press into the bruises to remember this for days. 

Dorian forms a secure grip on the pair of rough horns again (note to self, purchase more horn balm, they’ve obviously been neglected), rubbing the area where the horns emerge until Bull throws his own head back again with a hiss. Though Bull is more reserved with expressions of his own pleasure, Dorian always the one who ends up chanting mindlessly to the Maker and lighting objects on fire, it’s obvious how much this is affecting him. When he looks up to Bull’s face, his eye is half-lidded and pupil large and dark. 

Trying to push his hips up, tilt them to a better angle to help Bull hit exactly the right place, Dorian groans. It just makes Bull go even harder, until he snatches the pillow right out from under Dorian and folds it before shoving it beneath Dorian’s lower back. The movement makes Dorian’s head bounce back down to the bed. 

Without realizing it, Dorian tries to grab Bull’s free hand with his own, even though it results in it bending awkwardly, but it turns out that Bull is actually gripping the headboard at the top of the bed instead, so tightly that Dorian swears he hears it crack a little. They’re just moving senselessly now in matching rhythm, entirely by instinct. 

“Shit, so _tight_.” Dorian is surprised to hear the deep voice rasp into his ear, before Bull’s sharp teeth begin to tug on it. “I’m going to make you come so-uhn-” Other than to give orders, Dorian has rarely heard him speak so much in the common tongue, “-so fucking hard you won’t be able to walk.” Dorian keens, given such a thrill to have brought this out of Bull outside of one of their games. Bull’s thrusts now push right against that glorious spot inside him. Each movement tears a hitched gasp from his throat. To swallow Dorian’s strangled cries, Bull has to arch his back and nudge Dorian’s head back so he can join their lips together. Sweat is nearly dripping from both of them; Dorian tastes it on Bull’s lips, his own body gleaming in the soft light.

He’s so close already to his peak that he clenches harder until Bull groans long and loud into his mouth, driving into him even harder and swelling even further inside him. Until the pressure is too much. Too intense. Oh, he’s going to burst, he can’t hold on, he can’t take it.

But he won’t use the word. 

“-to fuck you until you can’t breathe,” Dorian can barely hear what Bull’s saying over the pounding in his ears. “You hear it, how it sounds? You like that?”

“Kadan!” Dorian sobs out in answer, not even realizing he’s lapsed out of both common as well as his own language. “Kadan, kadan, Bull, amatus, oh amatus,” he’s repeating endlessly, the few words the only things his brain has room for, and he practically squeals as his hips are lifted even further off the bed with the force of the thrusts, Bull grinding into him with a punishing rhythm. The pain is so sweet. “Oh fucking…fucking Andraste save me. Iron Bull!” he howls, high and loud, knowing he will feel utterly ridiculous for that later but right now all he can see is his impending peak. So close, so close. 

Then there are broken noises of pleasure as Bull, ever disciplined and who always ensures Dorian finds completion before de does, has a rare loss of control, buries himself even further inside Dorian than he thought possible, then spills inside him with a roar. Though Dorian can barely feel the spend inside of him, only spreading warmth where everything is so moist and loose and slippery, how powerful it must be because the way Bull’s cock throbs inside him is something he _can_ feel. Just the thought that he was the cause of it fills him with delicious pride. ‘I did that. _I_ did that. _I_ -’

Without Bull’s hand even making it to his cock, Dorian is erupting over his stomach and tugging Bull’s hips into him a final, blissful time. Cock twitching with every strong pulse as he clings to Bull, voice cracking with a shout of relief that soon becomes a satisfied moan, he’s done. Even Bull seems somewhat taken aback by the intensity of it, blinking down at him wide and glassy-eyed through the haze of the immediate aftermath. 

And just like that it’s over. Everything suddenly seems to move more slowly. It’s as if the world around him has been slowed by his time magic. Who knows, maybe it _has_ been, his tentative grip on his own magic long removed. But he’s heavy and relaxed, more so than in a long time. 

Slowly, Bull’s grip on his hip loosens, his other hand falling from the simple wooden frame of the headboard heavily down to the top of the bed. But Bull doesn’t let him go, still supporting Dorian’s now limp body, his hand and the pillow the only things keeping the mage from possibly melting into the sheets. 

Mustering up enough magic to extinguish the lamp, Dorian bathes them in near-darkness, though judging by the greyish sky the sun is already getting ready to peek over the horizon. After that, he lets his head flop down to the mattress, and listens to Bull’s ragged breathing, brushing floppy hair matted with sweat away from his own forehead. 

“Maker,” Dorian finally breaks the silence with the quiet sigh. Bull agrees with a heavy exhale, before pulling out of him carefully, wiping himself with the edge of the sheet. Fortunately Dorian is too exhausted to whinge about that, too caught up in enjoying his body’s freedom from the pressure. Bull decides to leave him embarrassingly spread open, as he moves back onto his knees to admire his work. He strokes Dorian’s inner thighs, splays his large hands up and over the sides of his torso and then finally sweeps his hands into the slight dent of Dorian’s stomach and into the sticky remnants of his satisfaction. No doubt Bull is also watching copious amounts of come and oil drip out of him. Dorian can’t distinguish between the two, can only feel terribly wet and uncomfortably stretched. And deep inside it definitely feels like he’s been very brutally pounded with a very hard object multiple times. Reality, he supposes. 

Somehow he still enjoys the feeling. He won’t enjoy it later, much like he won’t enjoy having to launder everything later, and the pillow will surely be unusable. But it’s worth it. It’s all worth it.

Other than a soft noise that escapes him with every exhale, Dorian doesn’t say anything else, until Bull decides to move his head down closer to his hole, tonguing his balls before moving back to the mess he’s made of Dorian. 

“Oh _no_ , Bull I can’t take it, I can’t- _nnn_ -” he half-whispers, as Bull’s tongue laps at his used hole, loose and sore. Too sensitive, too much. “No, no, katoh, h-have mercy-” Bull stops immediately as he always does, but as he can tell he’s not passed a hard limit he simply lets out a cocky laugh as Dorian pushes weakly at his horns like a tiny, squirming nug. “Sweet merciful maker, have pity on me.” 

In the end, Bull settles for pushing his cheeks together, amused at the way Dorian squirms at the feeling. Bastard.

“That was fun,” Bull says, back to his usual self as if nothing had ever happened, as if Dorian’s not lying there trying to put the pieces of himself back together. “Let me know when you’re ready to go again.”

“ _Again?_ ” he’s aghast. “Amatus, surely not.”

“Night’s still young. And so are you. Sort of,” Bull says. The grey hairs starting to pop up early is a family trait and not at all a reflection of him getting older, thank you very much. Alas, Dorian can’t feel too indignant with contentment seeping into every part his body, right down to his toes. (Come to think of it, perhaps he should uncurl them). Bull lets himself be pushed off of him for the comment, though, flopping down beside him on the too-small bed. 

“Not all of us have Qunari stamina is all,” Dorian mumbles.

“Fair enough.” He lets it stand. Bull’s generous erection has gone completely soft now, resting against a thick thigh. Dorian gives it one last brush with the palm of his hand as he curls into Bull, turning into the side of his chest. Breeze blowing through the empty window cools the sweat on his skin. Mess is drying on his stomach, drying in other places, but he can’t bring himself to move his limbs any more than this. 

Sometime while he’s still slowing his breathing, Bull eases away from him and returns with some of the bathwater in a clay bowl, using it to clean Dorian – again with the edges of the sheets. Dorian should really buy some towels, and… 

when he opens his eyes next Bull is snoring beside him, dead to the world, sprawled out so his feet hang over the bottom of the bed while his horns scratch the headboard. Dorian must have dozed off, and at some point he’d been pulled into the crook of Bull’s arm where he fits, as always, quite perfectly. He notices Bull has removed his eyepatch as well, the scarred skin not looking quite as taut with the rest of his face relaxed in sleep. Dorian wants to kiss it like Bull did his own scars. But he’s not sure if he’s allowed to cross that line yet. 

For a long time, he stares up at the vaulted ceiling. When he finally turns his head to the other side, the sky outside has already begun to change colour. What he wouldn’t give to have every day be like this. Just give up trying to change things in Tevinter and sleep the day away in Bull’s warm arms. Make what must be the most terrible villa in Thedas into the home it has started to be after just one night. 

But he knows he can’t, not with work still to do.

Every time at this moment he wants so desperately to say something like, “I’ll miss you.” But he’d get too emotional himself, and no one likes tears – those he saves for his own private room, where they stem forth from overwhelming feelings of frustration and isolation. Besides, open verbal expressions of love are already frowned on in Tevinter, and Dorian will probably never be able to do such a thing with a man, certainly not with a Qunari. 

Yet Dorian wants nothing more than to just let it out, just say his straightforward “Amo te,” before Bull is torn from him again, and _to the bloody Fade_ if it sounds like he’s stepped out of a bad historical romance. It’s what’s in his heart, and he’d like to say it before something happens that would make it too late. 

Preoccupied and unable to rest, Dorian sits up carefully, trying not to jostle either Bull or his own sore body, and stares out through the window – nothing more than a hole in the wall, really – lost in his own fears and sudden melancholy. He shifts a little to hug his scarred leg close to his chest. 

“Hey,” Bull says behind him. It startles Dorian a little; he hadn’t even noticed the change in breathing. _Ben-Hassrath_. Bull’s hand comes to rest on Dorian’s lower back, rubbing in a soothing pattern. Dorian wants to banter back, with a witty comment and some mocking laughter and more blabbing. 

But before he can stop himself he keeps staring forward and blurts out stupidly, “Iron Bull I feel a deep affection for you.” Then he winces at how ridiculous he must seem. Of all the times to struggle to find words. 

For a moment there’s only the sound of the constant mild hum of insects expressing their joy at getting to see another pinkish dawn again, combined with Bull’s slow, steady breathing, which hasn’t changed tempo at all. So Dorian risks looking back at him over his shoulder, only to see that Bull is giving him one of his usual indulgent half-smiles. 

No, not indulgent, that’s not quite right. 

Bull looks at him the way Cullen looks at an Ellana heavy with child, as if he’s solely responsible for creating the moons themselves, for the sun rising over Thedas. “Good morning to you too,” he replies, simply, and closes his eye again. 

A few days later, as he waves at Iron Bull as he disappears back over the hillside, Dorian finally understands that neither of them really need to say it at all. It’s already obvious.


End file.
